


is this what you call art?

by bonjourmags



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Art, Fluff, M/M, Poetry, enjoy tho, it's just me trying to b deep tbh, it's just poetry and art references, really if you don't like art just don't open this, this is just about art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 17:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14573553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonjourmags/pseuds/bonjourmags
Summary: Stanley Uris doesn’t like art. If you ask him, he won’t say that he hates it, he just doesn’t care. When his mom tells him there’s a summer job for him in the Main Museum of Maine, the MMoM, he takes it because he has nothing else to do.Bill Denbrough likes art, more than most people. Bill understands what art is trying to say, even when there’s no explanation next to it.That summer Stanley Uris fell twice, once for art, and once for Bill.





	is this what you call art?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Please, please, check on google images if you don't know what the artworks are! It makes this fic x1000 times better and you can actually understand what's going on.   
> This is for Livia.

Stanley Uris doesn’t like art. If you ask him, he won’t say that he hates it, he just doesn’t care. That’s it: art doesn’t amaze him, it doesn’t touch him like everyone say it does, it doesn’t make him feel anything. He looks at paintings, he thinks it’s nicely done or he says he doesn’t understand the idea behind the it, and that’s over. There’s nothing else. Stan doesn’t interact with art, and it doesn’t interact with him either. His love for art surely isn’t the reason why he decided to work half on his summer at the MMoM, Main Museum of Maine. He just wanted to do something when he wasn’t away on holiday, and his mother told him that she had a place for him there. She was the director, or “something like it, I direct art commands and arrivals”, as she tells him whenever he asks what truly is her job there, but both of them aren’t really interested in having this conversation. 

That’s how he ended up, as July just started, in the MMoM for eight hours a day, minus his pause when he decides to eat. For him, it meant easy money. He just had to follow some orders, but working in a museum wouldn’t ask too much effort, right? He would probably have to tell nicely to kids that you can’t touch paintings, then explain to old ladies what the artwork is about when he doesn’t know a thing about it himself, but he’ll find some infos on internet, he’s sure. He enters the museum and says hi to the guy that’s at the counter. That must be David, his mother told Stan that he was the one who was supposed to show him around. He took one of his earphones out, then the other, and gave a polite to the boy who seemed to be in his late thirties. “Hi, I’m Stanley Uris.” He said, hoping that he wouldn’t have to explain that he was the newbie working here with him for the next month. 

David’s expression changed as soon as Stan said his name. “Oh, yes, yes, uhm, wait a second,” he told him, searching for something in his pockets. He took a walkie talkie out, using it, “David here, I need someone to replace me at the entry, if possible, uhm, in the five next minutes? Stanley just arrived and I need to show him around.” He says but it’s like he doesn’t care about an answer, since he turns to Stan and starts telling him what he needs to know. 

“So during your shifts, you’ll stay either here, to give tickets and guide who needs to be guided, or you’ll stay in the rooms, to see if everything is going well. We have cameras if anything happens, of course, but it’s better if you’re there to prevent.” Stan stays quiet. “The director thinks it’s better for your attention span if you change rooms regularly. So we made up a moving system, a guard for every room, and you guys change every forty minutes. This makes it quite hard for the pauses, which forces you to take it only two by two. Not everyone at the same time, never. This museum holds really, really famous artworks and we can’t leave it without any guards.” 

Stan knew that. He did his research, after all, and since his mother was the one who decided what piece was in or out, he heard about it at home. He knew that there was two Monet in here, a Picasso somewhere, in another room a Malévitch, but also old paintings and sculptures such as a copy of the tyranoctones. Famous names that Stanley knew because everyone else did too, but he was quite surprised to see the paintings in real life. It’s like telling you that this super star that you don’t really care about is just there, you’d still look at them with interest, but the second after it’s gone. Because your heart isn’t there. Your heart doesn’t beat for it. It doesn’t change your life. 

It would be a lie to say that art didn’t change Stanley Uris’ life.

David told him the way the museum was made. First floor was the usual exhibition, in an - almost - chronological order. It was more interesting to place the artworks by their artistic movement, which is what the MMoM did, and most of the time the art movement followed History. Most of the time. Second floor was the special exhibition. It changed every month, and the artwork was supposed to be more contemporary than the rest. Stanley thought that this kind of art is the most ridiculous of them all; it’s as if artists nowadays just wanted to shock, to be published in journals. Saying this to his mother would’ve started a giant fight, so he keeps his thoughts for himself. He nods at everything David says, sighing internally, thinking that this would be a long month. 

***

Stanley loved the Art Nouveau room. He liked that kind of art, he thought it was pretty. Most of the artworks in the room were paintings, or publicities for alcohol made by a certain Alphons Mucha. Stan loved how he presented women, how their bodies were turned into pretty drawings. That was something that touched him, just a bit. He liked the way the background kissed the beauty of the ladies represented, while the flowers around them made him think of spring, meaning return of many birds, bringing nice memories of his entire life. He even caught himself thinking that it would be nice to be this good at art. Alfons-Mucha-good at art. During one of his pauses, he made a small research on that art movement, and Stanley learned that it also had it’s place in architecture. He loved architecture, this probably linked to his love of mathematics and space in general. 

Stanley hated the Impressionism room. It annoyed him to his guts. It wasn’t even pretty. He hated Van Gogh. Who the fuck even cuts their ear to give it to their sister? _“Well, honey, it wasn’t the entire ear, you know-”_ said his mom whenever he asks. The MMoM museum had the artwork ‘Vase with twelve sunflowers’ in their collection, and Stanley hated it. “Mom, it’s ridiculous. It’s flowers, and while flowers are incredibly pretty, these ones aren’t. Flowers are better in real life than in stup- than in paintings.” Her mother would usually roll her eyes whenever Stan said this kind of remarks. 

“You don’t understand. It’s good. It’s really important. It’s human culture.” She says, and Stan trusts her. She’s right, he doesn’t understand. He’s not sure he wants to, anyway. “You’ve never guarded Willem de Rooij’s room, haven’t you?” She asked him after this, to what he said that he didn’t. “Do it. You’ll be surprised.” After she told him this, he asked David if he could, to what he said the answer was yes, but Samatha was already in it at the moment, so he had to wait for the next shift. He asked what room was free now, and David smiled when he told him, “Impressionism.” Stanley wondered if his mom told David that he hated it, but the question stayed inside his mind.

Stanley hated the Impressionism room, yes, that’s true, but not completely. There was one artwork there - one that actually touched him. He couldn’t understand why, it was something hidden deep inside him. When he entered the room, it was empty. Normal, the museum wasn’t open yet, only workers were inside. He took the opportunity to lose himself a second in front of the painting. A small piece of paper under the artpiece told him the little information he knew of it. 

_“Charlotte Salomon - Self portrait, 1940.”_ It was the face of a girl, watching directly at you, as if she was scanning your eyes and your thoughts and mind and emotions and face and it was so overwhelming. Stanley thought it wasn’t pretty, the artwork wasn’t pretty. The colors weren’t right at all, her skin was too yellow to be real. But there was something. Something he couldn’t name, something art only could tell you, something unshareable. He was attracted. Not by the girl, but by her gaze. She was trying to tell him something. 

Suddenly, someone entered the room, and Stanley recognized his mother’s steps. She stopped next to him. “You like this? I thought Impressionism was the worst thing you ever saw.” She says quietly, as if the paintings around could hear her. 

“I like this one. I don’t know why. It gets me, I guess.” She puts her hand on his shoulder, “Of all of the paintings in this room, you like Charlotte Salomon. Weird enough. Looks like _HaRachamim_ wanted you to like this one.” Stanley doesn’t know what God has to do with art, but he doesn’t say anything, and she leaves. The day starts.

***  
When he finally gets his shift in the Willem de Rooij’s room, he understands. Well, he doesn’t understands the art, and this one particularly not at all, but he understands why his mother wanted him to guard this one. The entire room is white, like the rest of the museum, and holds only one artwork. It’s called ‘Bouquet V’. A podium stands in the middle of the room, with a vase, full of colorful flowers. And that’s it. This is what we call art, he thinks.

He can’t stop but telling himself that it is nice to be here. The flowers are really pretty, in colors that go well together. It’s mostly pastel, with baby pinks, sweet yellows, quiet greens, he tries from where he stands to name the different flowers but there’s so many that he can’t find them all. There’s a sunflower, he’s sure, he recognizes a rose, and a tulip. But everytime he looks at it, at a particular flower, he discovers a new one. In this giant bouquet, it seems like every flower is different. 

_“It is the case, actually. Ninety-five flowers, all different, all put in a way you can see them as much as you can see the others. There is no hierarchy in the bouquet. This is a critic, Stan, this artwork has a sociopolitical side to it. It’s pretty, that’s sure, but that’s not all. And there’s something else about it, that makes it so special-”_ His mother told him as they were eating the same night, but his Dad interrupted, “Darling, I just finished laundry, can you help me fold the clothes, please? Stanley too?” 

The discussion was a puzzle with a missing piece. Stanley didn’t know that the missing piece wouldn’t be bring by his mother, but by a stranger, Bill Denbrough.

***

It was day ten, ten days since he started his job. He was at the entry with David - on saturdays, they were two there. They had to, since it was, most of the time, full of people. Well, it was around three, but at six, it was mostly empty. That’s when he met him for the first time. 

When he entered, Stanley remarked him. He remarked every teenager that went inside the museum, since they were way less frequent than adults and seniors. Describing his clothes or the way he was walking would be ridiculous ; that didn’t matter. What did matter, was the stupid haircut he had, and how much Stan wanted to make a joke to David when he entered, but thankfully, he didn’t. He realized how awkward it would’ve been when the boy placed a cup of coffee on the counter, David smiling back to him.

“Hi Bill, back from holiday?” Stan quickly understood that he wasn’t anyone, and that jokes on his hair falling back on his eyes were clearly unwanted. As if Stan wasn’t in the room, they started chatting. “Yeah, it w-ah-was awesome. R-uh-Rome is incredible, I ha-ah-have so much sketches to sh-oh-show you!” Stan couldn’t help but listen, and the low voice who stutters didn’t help his curiosity. It wasn’t usual to hear teenager with a stutter. “Right, these sketches are just betrayal, you had to go in other museums to do them.” David says with a fake pout, and the boy - Bill, apparently, - laughs. His laugh doesn’t stutter. Can you stutter when you laugh?

“I’m not married to t-th-this museum, you know!” He says in a smile and Stan wonders how nice it must be to be so at ease in here. Maybe he works here, that’s why, but his mother didn’t tell him that there was other teens working for summer - or regularly. It must be something else. He searches for signs, but gets losts watching the way the boy moves around as he talks, and how his fingers are brushing against the cup of coffee. On which is written David, wait - isn’t this boy named Bill? He gets out of his own imagination and thinks that this is what people must feel when they’re really into art, but for him, art is what’s real. And this boy is real. 

“- and l-uh-like, she forced me to l-uh-leave, yknow? Because I st-uh-stayed more than two hours in the s-ah-same room.” David laughs and Stan thinks that he just missed a funny story while being lost in his thoughts. The boy pushes the cup of coffee to David, who takes it and gives him a ticket for the museum in exchange. Stan must hold a weird face since his David seems forced to give him an explanation, “Oh yeah, by the way, Stan, this is Bill. He’s a regular. Really regular, he comes here at least once a week and stays a long time inside. He’s practically a guard that isn’t paid,” he jokes, “which is why we voted, unanimously, during the council three months ago, that he won’t pay anymore. Bill has given to this museum, before we decided he could get a free pass, hm-” he tries to count how much, but Bill starts talking, “once a w-uh-week, for t-uh-ten months, eight bu-uh-bucks with the student discount, that m-m-makes a total of at l-uh-least 320 bucks.” That’s a lot, thinks Stan.

“That’s a lot.” Says David out loud. “Bill here really likes art, I think.” He gives him a wink, the kind of wink you get from your uncle at festivities. “Well, I w-uh-work and don’t use th-the money, so it was okay to use it for something I like.” Stan presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t know if he would give that much money for art. He thinks that two months ago, he wouldn’t have. Now? Maybe. Depends. If it’s Art Nouveau or Charlotte Salomon, maybe yes. Not like he could go anywhere with 320 bucks, because art is really expensive. “So, this guy is the o-o-one who stole my job?” Bill says, and the tone tells Stan that this is half a joke, half a remark. “Oh, well, no, I mean,” David starts, “Well, yes. That’s the guy. Sorry Bill. It’s just- he’s Uris’ son.” Bill looks at Stan, emotion unreadable. 

Bill is like a painting, difficult to understand if you don’t try hard. “I’m not mad, y-y-you know, I’ll get the j-oh-job next year. I’m kinda m-ah-mad that you got it because of mommy, though.” It’s not mean, Stan knows it from his voice. It’s nothing. 

Before Stan could say anything, Bill was gone, and Stan remarked for the first time a small canvas in his hand, the hand that wasn’t holding the coffee cup. He gets inside the museum, and he’s long gone. Stan turns to David, “He was supposed to have my job?” he asks, suddenly feeling bad for this, as if he stole someone’s opportunity, someone who actually liked art. “Uh, kind of. He wanted it, and everyone wanted to give it to him because we all know how much he likes the MMoM, but there was some problems with his holiday, since he was leaving for a few days, and your mother said you could take his place. So kind of, but not completely, don’t think it’s your fault, it’s not that.” 

Stan was lost.

“Who is he?” he asks, trying to find his path back, and David looks like he just asked the weirdest question, “I mean, you said his name was Bill, and that he comes here often. But who is he?” David doesn’t answer directly, “Maybe you should ask him. It’s not like you won’t see him for a while. During summer, he’s here all the time.”

***

“Who is he?” Stan asks, to his mother, when they’re going back home. “The boy. Bill. Who is he?” His mother seems to think for a second, “Oh, Denbrough! I had no idea of who you were talking about. He’s a boy who comes to the museum all the time.” Stan nods, “Yes, I know. Which is why I want to know who he is, will he be annoying when I work?” That’s one of the reasons. The other is that he’s really surprised that an eighteen - well, he looks eighteen, maybe nineteen? - year old boy is about to spend his entire summer inside of a museum. Well, without a paycheck. It makes him interesting. Stanley Uris doesn’t like art, but now, he saw the attract of it, and could understand why people liked it that much. But - that that much? No. 

“He won’t bother you. He stays, watches some of the artworks for a long time, takes notes like he’s analyzing them, but from what Samantha told me, it’s probably just his thoughts. He draws, a lot, from what everyone says, I don’t really know since I’m not a guard, but he draws the art pieces. And he reads, most of the time he reads books. He’s an english major, he told me that a few months ago. He has to read a lot of books for his classes, and summer is the only time he has to read the books he actually wants to read. I think he just likes the museum a lot.” She pauses and Stan knows her sentence isn’t finished but she cuts it off before saying anything, but he knows what she wants to add. _Not everyone has their home in the same house than the one they sleep in._ “Anyway, he’s an artist. He’s really, really good at drawing, and trust me, I’ve seen enough art in my life to be a good critic,” she jokes and Stan thinks that she must like Bill, because his mother never jokes around, “But he’s afraid of money, so he’s one of these artists that will end up as a teacher for high schoolers that don’t deserve him, and he’ll never pursue his artistic life, such a shame.” She pauses and Stan sees in her his mother again, “This is one of the reasons why I said yes to give him free access to the museum. If he keeps coming, he keeps drawing.” 

***  
Stan sees Bill a lot, that’s true. No one was lying when they said that he came in the museum all the time. Whenever he was at the entry, he would get a free coffee from him, but it was always with David’s name on it, “Oh s-uh-sorry, I don’t know y-your name,” he says usually, but goes inside the exhibition before Stan could ever answer. Thinking about it, it’s not completely true, since David said Stan’s name when they met the first time, but maybe Bill didn’t pay attention.

Bill doesn’t pay, anyway.

He sees him when he guards the rooms. Sometimes it’s because Bill comes to the one he’s in at the moment, but most of the time it’s pure hasard and Stan ends up to have a shift where Bill is already seating. He doesn’t seem to have a favorite room, or that’s what Stan thinks from where he sees him. That was until he had a late shift in the Willem de Rooij’s room. Stan wanted to go home, to drink a beer, and calm down of his day - it wasn’t particularly full or hard, but he had his days like these. Maybe a cigarette. Beverly says it helps the nerves. Stan doesn’t like the smell of it, like he doesn’t like art in general. 

He starts to like art, but he won’t say it. 

He wants to see art from the eyes of visitors, the eyes of these seniors who always stay in front of the Night Watch made by Rembrandt, the teenagers excited to enter The Beanery, - Stan loathed the Beanery - or adults watching one of Andy Warhol’s works. He wanted to know how it feels. How great it is to appreciate it as much as it is good to eat a good piece of cake, or watch a nice movie, or smell honey during spring. 

Bill entered Willem de Rooij’s room, as if it was his house, and went straight to the artwork standing in the middle. Stan knew Bill didn’t remark his presence, but he said nothing. People are different when they know that they’re being watched. He wanted to see him without the façade we unconsciously uses when we’re around others. But Bill is the same, as if he didn’t need anything to be himself. He’s watching the flowers, one by one, and takes notes. Stan wonders if he’s doing the same as he’s doing himself when he’s in this room, which is trying to know what every single flower is. He turns around, and Stan knows why people post pictures of themselves in front of art on the internet, it’s because it adds so much. 

In this room, Bill is as breathtaking as the Bouquet V is.

Stan is a boy who usually doesn’t like boys, but he couldn’t say that Bill wasn’t good looking, because that would be lying. The mystery around him - this artistic soul, these artistic hands, these artistic eyes, all of this made him an enigma.

Bodies aren’t the only thing that make someone look good. 

Bill continues to analyze the flowers, and he keeps turning around them, around, and around, until Stans gets in his sight. “Oh.” That’s all he says but his eyes say more, his eyes tell Stan that he feels like a stealer taken in the act. He’s not, of course. 

Bill leaves after a minute, and Stan is pretty sure he stayed that long just to make it look like he didn’t mind to be surprised, but if it wasn’t impolite, he would’ve left directly. 

Stan wonders if Bill wants to make the art piece for himself, to place it in his own house, but he remembers that Bill’s home isn’t his house, and that his home, the MMoM, already has the Bouquet V in it. 

***  
When it happens for the first time, it’s on day nineteen, a monday. Stan is seating on a special chair that he guardians have - one that is light enough so they can take them to other rooms when their shifts change - he’s sitting on it and it’s uncomfortable, but it’s better than staying up all day long. He’s just next to _The Kiss_ , made by Gustav Klimt, and Stan actually enjoys this painting. He likes the colors. He likes gold.

Bill enters and they don’t say hi, not because they don’t know each other enough for it, but because it isn’t needed. It’s not needed to say hi as much as it’s not needed to talk, because Bill is too much into his thoughts about art that it wouldn’t be fair to wake him up from his daydream. Stan waits for him to take a book of his bag, maybe one by Jane Austen, or maybe Victor Hugo, but Bill decides to use his canvas. Stans knows he wants to redraw _The Kiss,_ and he fully understands, because he would probably do that too if he had hands that worked like Bill’s hands.

Stan wonders if Bill finds in life something that is as powerful as art. He wonders if Bill can actually fall in love with humans, or if his imagination has ruined it for him. Because nothing can be as good as a painting, no kiss is as good as _The Kiss,_ no soup will ever taste like Andy’s _Campbells,_ no bar will ever make you lose time as much as _The Beanery,_ no life will be as good as one of the books he has ever read. 

Bill keeps eyeing him when he thinks that Stan not looking. Stan caughts him and suddenly Bill doesn’t care about being discrete anymore. He looks at him, then goes back to his canvas, then Stan again. 

“You’re not drawing The Kiss, right?” Stan asks, his tone low. 

Bill tells him no without actually saying it out loud, just with a head sign. 

Bill is drawing Stan. But this doesn’t add up - he remember his mother’s words. “My mom told me you only draw art.” Stan tells as an answer, but it’s a question. Bill bites his pen as he adds a few details, 

“Paintings aren’t the only form of art that exists.” He doesn’t stutter.

***  
The day after, Bill showed up in one of the most ridiculous outfits Stan ever saw. He was taking his pause, outside of the building, eating a sandwich while appreciating the heat of summer. When Bill saw him, he went to see him and say hi instead of just entering the museum. 

It was weird, but Bill was a stranger that Stan liked more than most strangers. As if the time, the long hours they spent in the museum together brought them closer. Maybe the word stranger isn’t the best to describe what they were to each other. Strangers don’t talk, strangers don’t share what they think, while Bill and Stan did. They talked, mostly about art because it was as if Bill had no other subject of interest but that one. But Bill was incredibly smart, with an incredible memory and so much knowledge on everything that came close to culture. Bill thought that everything was art, paintings, movies, but also people, history, mathematics. 

It was so easy to have feelings for Bill Denbrough - it doesn’t matter if the feelings were romantic, or sexual, but they’re here, in Stan’s mind. There’s something that he couldn’t name, something like a link between them. 

In an alternate universe, they’re soulmates. Stan doesn’t daydream about this, he’s sure he’s right. In an alternate universe, they’re best friends. In an alternate universe, they don’t even meet at all. Stan is thankful that he’s not in that dimension. 

Stan has no words to describe what he feels, or what he thinks Bill feels. He doesn’t need them. A picture is worth a thousands words, but the reality is worth thousands pictures. 

Bill has this smile hanging on his lips when Stan tells him that his sweater looks stupid, “I didn’t know that you were the type to wear fake Supreme sweaters.” It’s a gray one, with written in the Supreme typography ‘Don’t be a jerk.’ Bill isn’t a skater boy, that’s sure. His arms are lanky, his legs are even worse. He’s not the sporty type. All the precision he has in his hands was stolen from the rest of his body. Bill rolls his eyes.

“This isn’t a S-s-uh-Supreme t-shirt. I hate Supreme.” He says, and Stan thinks that he didn’t read the sweater well, since he’s being a jerk to Bill. “Well, clearly it is. White italic font with a red rectangle, that’s Supreme.” Denbrough looks at him with the look that you give the children who asks where does babies come from. 

“This is an a-a-ah-artwork made by Barbara Kruger. She created t-the font, Supreme stole it, put it on a sweater, and now they make th-th-thousands, no one knowing that it’s actually art.” He smiles, happy to prove Stan wrong, “Which is, very, v-v-very paradoxal and ironic, since Kruger’s art is p-oh-political and anti-capitalist.” He’s getting close in a cocky way that Stan doesn’t like, so all he does is that he puts his finger on Bill’s chest to feel the material. Bill stays there just a second, then he’s gone from his touch and Stan’s finger feels cold. “You should f-f-finish your sandwich now. The a-art is lonely, out th-there when you’re not there.” 

_No, the art doesn’t care when I’m away, Stan thinks, but he does care when your soft eyes aren’t there to compliment their curves,_ but he says nothing. It’s too soon. 

Bill isn’t in love with art, this was Stanley’s conclusion after all the time they spent together. Bill is incredibly fascinated by it. Bill understands what art is trying to say, even when there’s no explanation next to it, because he listens. He takes a second to watch, to feel, to comprehend what art murmurs. 

Stan isn’t in love with Bill Denbrough, but he likes him the same way Bill likes art. He’s fascinated by him. He doesn’t understand Bill completely, but he listens, he takes a second to watch, to feel, to comprehend what he tells him. 

He’s taking a bite of his sandwich and his eyes go to Bill’s hands - they’re holding a book. He finishes what he has in his mouth, and asks what everyone asks in this situation, “What are you reading?” Bill’s answer is soundless, as he shows the book in Stan’s plain sight. 

It’s _her,_ he knows it’s he because he could recognize her everywhere - It’s Charlotte. On the book, there’s a picture of the Impressionist painting Stan can’t stop but love. She’s watching him throughout the paper and she’s trying to tell him something, he knows that there’s this thing he can’t understand, that her wordless stare is telling him something, almost warning him. “That’s… Charlotte.” Is all he can say, and Bill laughs. Again, there’s no stutter and Stan wonders if Bill would’ve that much charm if he was stutterless. Probably not, because every piece of him makes him _him._

“Yeah, h-how did y-you know? Oh, m-uh-maybe because th-that’s written here. It’s t-the name of the b-uh-book. I had no idea y-y-you could read, you’re so su-uh-surprising, Stan.” He says as a joke and as an answer Stan hits his arm gently, which forces Bill to laugh even more. When the two of them take their minds back, Stan talks. 

“No, you don’t understand, that’s Charlotte. Salomon, she’s the only Impressionist painter I like. I hate Impressionism, but her? I can’t explain. This painting, with her yellow skin, it makes me… Well, uh, I don’t know how to tell you this. To you, or to anyone else. But this painting kind of speaks to me in a way art never does. I think art is boring, usually,” He sees that Bill is cringing at his last comment, “but this self portrait? It touched me. I can’t look at it too long or I don’t know what being alive means anymore.” 

These thoughts are incredibly intimate, and there’s no one in this world who will ever hear these again. But Bill gets to hear them because he’s special. He’s special like Charlotte Salomon is special. 

Bill smiles as if he knows something that Stan doesn’t. “Oh. I k-k-know why you like her so m-uh-much.” He’s cocky again and Stan wants to make him shut up but he’s too busy dreaming of an answer, “Her s-t-st-story, I guess. I believe in destiny. This is s-uh-some kind of strange hazard, but it-it’s poetic.” Bill tells him and Stan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He knows something he doesn’t. So he takes the book in his hands, desperate to know what he’s saying and to get an answer to one of the thousands mysteries that art brought to his life in the past weeks. “Is the book about her story?” He asks, and he’s going through the pages, before stopping on one page, on which words are highlighted. 

The book is written like a giant poem, he reads the passage. 

_“Alfred takes Charlotte’s hand._  
Let’s go on the boat.   
But it will surely rain, she answers.  
And what?   
Is rain really a problem in Germany?” 

That’s the missing piece of the puzzle. That’s the strange hazard that Bill was talking. That’s why he says he believes in destiny. That’s this entity, the reason why he likes Charlotte so much. Stanley Uris understands, slowly but it’s a shock, why it’s ironic that Charlotte Salomon is the only Impressionist artist he likes. _Because she’s jewish. She’s a jewish artist, in Germany, and that’s why rain isn’t a problem in Germany._

Bill smiles.

***  
 _From: unknown number_  
To: Stan U   
it’s called stendhal’s syndorme. check it up on the internet. -bill

_From: Stan U_  
To: Bill D  
How did you get my number? 

_From: Bill D_  
To: Stan U  
a magician never reveals ;)) 

_From: Stan U_  
To: Bill D  
David? 

_From: Bill D_  
To: Stan U  
… yes 

 

Stan doesn’t answer. There’s no words for him to write. Instead, he searches Stendhal’s syndrome on the internet.

_“Stendhal's syndrome is a psychosomatic disorder that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, fainting, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to an experience of great personal significance, particularly viewing art.”_

If there’s something that Stan thought he would never experience in his life, that was this. He wondered if Bill had this with all he sees, or if he has a special favorite that made him feel like this. Little did he know. 

***

_From: Mike H_  
To: Stan U  
Hey, do you want to take a coffee? When does your shift ends? I can come up to search you and bring you home after. xx 

_From: Stan U_  
To: Mike H  
I don’t work today, we can meet now if you want. I’m just watching videos on youtube. 

_From: Mike H_  
To: Stan U  
Bird asmr videos? :) 

_From: Stan U_  
To: Mike H  
I watched that video ONE time, when will you forget about this? 

_From: Mike H_  
To: Stan U  
Never ;) Let’s go to Richie’s Starbucks? So we can annoy him while his shift. 

_From: Stan U_  
To: Mike H  
You know how to talk to men. 

They meet in front of the Starbucks, who wasn’t full at all. It’s quite normal, because it was three in the afternoon, on a tuesday. Mike was happy, as always, which wasn’t surprising. He was back from three weeks in Greece, skin glowing. They were talking about the parties he attended - he found a way to make friends with people he couldn’t understand a word coming out of their mouths - and how the beach was nice over there. The barista says hi, and ask what they’re taking. Stan should be surprised, but he isn’t. “Hi, w-w-what can I get you?” The voice is too familiar, and the stutter comes from his best dreams. He plays it like he doesn’t know it’s Bill, like they’re strangers. 

Bill plays it too, and for a second they’re not who they are for each other. For a second the chemistry fades away and Stan sees how everyone sees Bill, on a daily basis, but he thinks the way he sees him is way better. Life without feelings would be dull. “I’d like a Frapuccino. Mocha.” He says, and Bill shows him the different sizes with ridiculous names, he goes for whatever is the middle one. He doesn’t ask for a name and Stan thinks he failed at their little game. He should’ve asked for his name. 

He does the same thing with Mike, but this time it isn’t fake because they’re really strangers. When Bill isn’t paying attention, Mikes goes to Stan’s ear and murmurs, “He looks really good,” before adding, “oh, I forgot you’re not really into guys.” Stan answers in the same tone, “I’m not usually.” Mike doesn’t weight his words and how much they meant. This is the first time Stan says to someone that he likes Bill. Behind the counter, he sees Richie making coffees. Like in every Starbucks, the person who takes your order isn’t the same as the one making it, and it’s their long-time friend Tozier who is making their drinks. 

“W-uh-what’s your name?” Asks Bill. “Mike.” 

They pay, and move to get their coffees. Richie sees them and gives them a kiss on the cheek - “It’s like in France!” “But Richie you’re not french.” “Who cares!” - and they quickly talk while he’s taking care of the coffees. He drops a Frappuccino on the table, and says, half-screaming half-talking normally, “Alfred! Frappuccino for Alfred!” Alfred is the same name as Charlotte’s lover, remembers Stan. Mike asks who’s the guy taking orders and Richie pinches his cheek, “That’s Big Bill. He’s completely gay and free. I can give you his number.” Stan hopes he doesn’t. 

 

Richie puts another cup on the table, “Mike, hot chocolate for Mike!” he says in the same voice as before, and Hanlon hushes him, “I’m just here, ugh, why do you have to scream?” Richie gives him a wink, “It’s a part of the job.” There’s still a Frappuccino for Alfred on the table. 

“Alfred, your drink is getting cold!” Screams Richie and Stans rolls his eyes, it’s already a cold drink. Richie turns to Stan and he knows he’s about to ask what was his command because he didn’t get it, but before he can say anything, Bill comes to them, quickly between two orders. “A-ah-Alfred, you’re not taking your Frappuccino?” He says to Stan. Stan can’t help but leave a smile on his lips. “Yeah, I am.” 

If Stan is Alfred, it means that Bill is Charlotte.

***  
 _From: Mike H_  
To: Stan U  
So… I didn’t ask earlier. You and coffee boy know each other? 

_From: Stan U_  
To: Mike H  
We met in a museum, once. 

_From: Mike H_  
To: Stan U  
I thought you didn’t like museums? 

_From: Stan U_  
To: Mike H  
So I thought with boys. 

_From: Mike H_  
To: Stan U  
???????   


***

It was pretty obvious that whatever Stan was feeling, Bill was close behind. Stan hoped it was true, but when he called him Alfred, it was bright. It was suddenly real and the string between their fingers was suddenly there, linking their past, present, and future together. 

Stan knew that this was passion, and not love, but he didn’t care. He wanted to know what it feels like to hold a boy, to be held by one, to joke around exchanging kisses, to try keep a straight face when he draws him, but unable to stay straight - in his mind, while watching these hands scrapping paper. Never letting him finish any drawing because if he does he won’t need him as a muse anymore. 

This wasn’t love, this was summer’s love, this was the story you remember when you’re old, the one that makes you smile, the one you don’t understand yet because you’re too young for this, but if you wait to be old enough it’s too late. 

When his mother asked what artworks she could try to get for the museum, he said that it would be nice to have a Wim Delvoye’s. She seemed really surprised that he knew that Belgian artist, and when she asked if he wanted the Ciment Turc, he said yes. 

He was lying. All he could think about was his fake church stained glasses, called Pipe. But he couldn’t tell her that. 

“What’s this paper, mom?” He says, as he sees her holding a list in her hands. He goes next to her, and looks more closely. “This is art, Stanley.” She tells him, but to him, it’s just a list of flower’s names. Oh. “Is this the list of Bouquet V?” He says, now interested. He wants to know. “Yes.” He waits for her to leave the piece of paper for a second, and takes a picture without her knowing.

***

_From: Stan U_  
To: Bill D  
When does your shift end today? 

_From: Bill D_  
To: Stan U   
i only work from six to one, so in a hour, why? 

_From: Stan U_  
To: Bill D  
I’m free. Maybe we can see each other. 

_From: Bill D_  
To: Stan U  
ok 

_From: Bill D  
To: Stan U  
<3  
_  
Stan did as fast as he could. He dressed himself, he took his bike - he didn’t drive, it was way too stressful for him - and went to the florist. When he showed the list, the girl who worked there looked at him with her jaw down. “This is going to be very expensive, you know that, right?” She says, not sure a boy who looks less than twenty asks for so many flowers can pay them. He shakes his head and thinks that Bill’s surprise is worth any dollar. He has a job and doesn’t really need the money, anyway. If it pleases Bill, it’s good. “Yeah. I know.” 

She makes him the bouquet, and it costs, indeed, a lot. 

He shows up at Bill’s - and Richie’s - Starbucks five minutes after Bill’s shift ended. He’s outside, speaking to Tozier, who is smoking a cigarette. Bill’s eyes light up when he sees him, and then his gaze goes on the bouquet. Bill is smiling, and Stan knows that he can’t smile more than this. Bill is happy, he won his race, heart racing. Richie is surprised, but not as much as Bill. Richie wouldn’t know how much the bouquet means to both of them, and how it’s the best gift Stan could ever give to Bill. 

Denbrough takes the flowers in his hands, “Th-th-thanks,” their eyes meet and so does their souls, Bill chuckling, “you really don’t u-uh-understand art, don’t you?” He says, dropping the bouquet on the ground. Stan’s heart doesn’t fall with it, it stays in Bill’s hands. The other boy takes him in his arms and Stan doesn’t mind the flowers shattered everywhere, because Bill is happy and his breath kisses Stan’s skin, “Stan,” he says, without a stutter. 

He likes his own name in his mouth. 

“The artwork wasn’t the flowers,” his hand is over his temple and he’s brushing his face with the same fingers that used to draw him, “The artwork is the list with all the flowers. That’s what the artist created. The list. The flowers - they’re nothing, they’re a florist’s work.” Stan doesn’t care, he may not understand art, but Bill does, and he understands it enough for the two of them. Stan wants to place his lips over his but Bill’s eyes are telling him that they need another moment to do that, and that anyway, Richie is just behind them, watching closely.

 

Their first kiss, as cheesy and stupid it sounds, was shared in front of _The Kiss, Gustav Klimt._ But this is another story to tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoped you liked! If you did, don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos! Makes my whole day tbh  
> btw, my tumblr is @stanbath if you're interested in talking about this precious ship


End file.
